


Accidental Heroes

by afterandalasia



Category: Aladdin (1992), علي شار و زمرد سمرقندی | Ali Shar and Zumurrud
Genre: Action/Adventure, Community: disney_kink, Crossover Pairings, Dark Magic, Desert, Djinni & Genies, F/M, Post-Movie: Aladdin and the King of Thieves, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-15
Updated: 2016-04-25
Packaged: 2018-01-08 18:56:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 21,899
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1136225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/afterandalasia/pseuds/afterandalasia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cassim and Iago enter Muskar looking for information, and possibly gold of they can get their hands on it. Instead, they find the intelligent and daring Zumurrud being sold as a slave, and earn her friendship by freeing her. It soon becomes clear, though, that there are shadows in her past as well as in his, and they are still reaching out to try to reclaim her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> For the anonymous prompter at Disney Kink who asked for Cassim and Iago, post-King of Thieves adventures.
> 
> My eternal thanks to A for helping me sort out the tagging on this one. ♥

"Muskar," said Iago derisively as they rode into the city. "Really? What is there in Muskar?"

"People. And people tell stories, and sometimes beneath those stories there is just a grain of truth." Cassim slowed his horse to a walk and pulled a banana out of his saddlebag. Peeling it, he broke off the end for Iago, and a second mouthful for himself.

"True," Iago replied around the banana. "And people have gold, as well."

Cassim smirked. "Well, there is always that."

They found an inn, and paid a boy to water and feed Cassim's horse while they were gone, before venturing deeper into the city. Though within two weeks' travel of Agrabah, it was quite different, with white buildings and stone streets, and a myriad of tongues being spoken.

"Have you ever been to Muskar?" asked Cassim, as they wove towards the marketplace. His deft hands picked up a handful of dates from a stall, and he set about sharing those with Iago as well. "I have not been here for some years. Not since Hiam as king."

"Eh, I think I visited with Al and Jas a couple of years back," said Iago with a wave of his wing. He flicked another date into the air and caught it in his mouth. "They've got some good wines, though, some really great vintages."

"Wine, in excess, clouds the mind." There was a warning tone to Cassim's voice, but he did not look up as he wove further through the marketplace. There looked to be a crowd further ahead, with laughter and shouting punctuating the air. It sounded like people were bidding for something.

Iago knocked back the last date. "Exactly."

With a roll of his eyes, Cassim slipped between another couple of merchants as a burst of laughter broke through the crowd. He finally managed to get close enough to see the centre of the commotion: a young woman on a dais, hands clasped before her. She was quite short, but shapely, with silk woven into her black braid of hair and kohl around her eyes; her dress was white, with a multicoloured belt, and from the distance Cassim would still have sworn that it was a fine fabric indeed.

"Five hundred dinars!" one of the men in the crowd called, raising his hand, and the woman on stage turned towards him and tilted her head curiously. The crowd parted slightly to let him through, and she looked him up and down, pursed her lovely lips, and shook her head.

"A dyed beard and shabby shoes. No, I will not deal with a man with more pride than vanity."

The crowd laughed at the man's expense, but no sooner had they done so than another stepped forwards. "Six hundred dinars," he shouted.

He lifted his head proudly as the crowd parted, and folded his arms across his chest. Cassim snorted, holding back a laugh, and ignored the sound caused by Iago cleaning feathers by his ear. For a moment, the woman on stage caught his eye, and he saw a playful wit in there which made him smile. She smiled back, and still smiled as her eyes moved on to the man who had made the latest call.

"Aha! A smile. You like me, then, oh jewel of the desert moon?"

Even Iago spat out a feather in disgust, but the woman tutted and shook her head.

"If you see the fangs of the lion, my lord, do not think the lion is smiling. No, I will not deal with fools."

Cassim wove between another couple of laughing men, divesting one of them of a terribly heavy-looking purse along the way, until he was close enough to see all of the young woman. His smile slipped away. Her hands were not clasped at her waist, but bound, and there was rope secured to both of her ankles.

"They were not in the habit of selling slaves last time that I was in Muskar," he murmured. Iago looked up with a 'huh' that sounded, for him at least, almost concerned.

The woman caught his gaze again, and though her green eyes still sparkled, he realised that there was something slightly wooden about her smile. She quirked an eyebrow at him and cocked her head just a fraction, and Cassim raised a hand to stroke his beard.

"I know that look," said Iago warily. "You're thinking."

"The most dangerous of things," he replied. "Would you mind doing a little distracting for me? The gentleman back there," a nod to the gentleman at the right-hand side of the stage, wearing gold-embroidered robes. "He looks like his pockets need lightening a little."

Iago looked at the man and nodded. "I can do that."

 

 

The woman on stage had just turned down another offer, this time for six hundred and fifty dinari, when the commotion broke out.

It started, by all accounts, with a red blur of feathers streaking across the dais so quickly that nobody could quite see to which sort of bird it belonged. In the process, however, it did manage to knock over three hats and one mildly inebriated spectator, who fell off the stage altogether in a tangle of limbs and to a good laugh from the watching crowd. A moment later, a man dressed in a white tunic, a black scarf covering his head, burst onto the stage breathlessly.

"Has anyone seen a talking parrot?"

Silence, apart from a few chuckles.

"My master's parrot," he insisted. "Red, about so large." He gestured with his hands. "Did you see it anywhere?"

One of the slave traders pointed in the vague direction in which the red blur had been headed. "I think it wen-"

"Aha!" There was a flash of red in the distance, and the man barged through the traders and ran off down the street after it. There was some laughter in his wake, and then the woman cocked her hips and turned back to the crowd who were all but her audience.

"The idea comes after the drunkenness, it would seem," she said mildly. One of her hands rubbed at the opposite wrist, where the rope had chafed her skin. The silk that she was dressed in gave her little protection from the sun, and she could feel the burning on her shoulders and her her chest through the fabric. "Are there any more offers or am I to find myself without a master once again?"

A hand grabbed her arm roughly from behind, and she did not have to turn to smell the drunken breath of her master. "You will be sold today," he hissed in her ear, "and if you do not accept then I will give you to whomever will pay me the highest price."

She pulled her arm free, refusing to turn to him or meet his gaze.

"Nine hundred dinari," a man in the crowd offered up. With whispers flying back and forth, the gathered men and women parted to let him through. He was tall, with a little grey at the temples of his hair, dressed in fine blue robes. "One hundred for her beauty, eight hundred for her wit -- and that is with no offence to her beauty."

The woman looked at him, and winked. It might have sounded for a moment like there was a mutter of _you could have offered less, you numbskull_ , but the man swatted his side and it fell silent again.

"I accept," she said. There was a roar of noise from the crowd, half-dismay and half-delight, and she held out her hands to the trader beside her. Her smile turned a little feral as she locked gazes with him and let her eyes burn into his. "Now let me loose."

 

 

"So why did you buy me?" said the woman, once they were out of earshot of her former masters.

Cassim held up the purse from which he had paid. "Well, I thought it might be only fair to give your master back a little of his money." As the woman laughed, he added: "The rest is yours, to finance your freedom. I would see no human in chains."

He gave her the purse, just as Iago reappeared and came to settle on his shoulder again. "You know, I really can see where Aladdin gets it sometimes. And me doing all the work."

"Calm, Iago," Cassim replied. He went as if to flick Iago's beak, but the parrot gave him such a scowl that he relented. "The other merchants did not fare so well."

"Thank you both," said the woman, inclining her head to them. "May I ask as to the names of my rescuers?"

"I am Cassim ibn Mahir, of Agrabah. The one complaining," he flicked his eyes to the side, "is Iago. And yours?"

"Zumurrud," she replied, and even when he raised an eyebrow would not say more. Up close, she was even more strikingly beautiful than she had been on the dais, with even features and heavy dark lashes around her green eyes, and graceful movements. But what caught his attention were the bruises on her wrists; Cassim went out to take her hands, but she pulled them away.

"You should get those seen to by a doctor," he said.

She shrugged. "I am more interested in new clothes and a fast horse to get me out of the city. Bruises will heal. Being recaptured by the men who sold me will not."

"Ah, yes." It was also apparent when up-close that the man who sold her had less care for her modesty than for how well her clothes showed her off. Cassim shrugged off his cloak, with Iago giving a grumble of protest, and offered it to her. "Here."

"Aren't you the chivalrous one?" says Zumurrud, with a quirk of her lips. She took the cloak, though, and wrapped it around her shoulders to cover herself. Her smile faded for a moment as she surveyed the city around her, its busy streets and peoples. Many of them were lighter-skinned, but Zumurrud had the duskier tones of the more southerly Seven Deserts peoples. "I will be glad to be gone from this place, but first I would eat. Will you join me? I really should repay your kindness."

"Food is good," said Iago.

Cassim glanced at the bird and shook his head, but offered another smile to Zumurrud. "It seems I must accept. I know of a place not far from here -- or at least I did, last time I visited."

"You dropped into _restaurants_ last time you were here?" Iago looked at him in disbelief.

"I had to do something between jobs, you know," said Cassim, and Zumurrud laughed and allowed him to lead the way.

 

 

They sat cross-legged in the shade, on a threadbare carpet eating from chipped dishes. Zumurrud had raised her eyebrows at the sight, but Cassim had pointed out that the place was still well-frequented despite its shabbiness, which could only mean that the food was good. Besides, it did more southerly fare, and he suspected -- without voicing such a thought aloud -- that she was homesick for her native food.

The almost blissful expression on her face at the first bite of the tabbouleh proved him right, and he chuckled into his tea. Iago settled down for control of the melons.

"How long were you captive?"

"A little over two months," she said, and gave half a smile at his shocked expression. "It is a long way from the Land of the Black Sands to Muskar. They stopped at a few other cities, to try to sell me, but..." a shrug, a mouthful of tabbouleh. "The first time that they tried, I blackened the man's eye and he returned me. After that, they tried to find a man that I would accept. How did you know what I intended?"

"A guess, I suppose," Cassim replied, "but I could not imagine anyone wanting to be a slave. Alas, I did not have the sort of money that was being bid, so I... improvised."

"Along with your brave, _brave_ associate."

Iago puffed up but pretended not to have heard, and they shared an amused glance over his head.

"But..." Zumurrud continued. "It will not be safe for me in the Land of the Black Sands again. But I am sure that I will find somewhere to establish myself. Every kingdom needs someone who can sew."

"Sewing?" It seemed almost anti-climactic to think of a woman of Zumurrud's beauty making clothes or curtains or anything of that sort. Even Iago looked up, chewing some piece of fruit thoughtfully. "That was... not what I expected."

She smiled, lips trembling with suppressed laughter. "Do I not look the type to sew? Or did you think I was a dancer or something more exotic?"

Cassim tried not to look too guilty, and Zumurrud could no longer help herself when she saw his expression. A bright peal of laughter left her, and she rocked back where she sat.

"You may look at the callouses on my hands if you desire proof." She proferred her hand like a lady, an elegant gesture, but at a glance Cassim could see the marks on her fingertips which showed that she was telling the truth.

"No, no," he said, holding up his hands in turn. "I believe you. I simply... would not have known what to suggest, had you asked me to guess."

Lowering her hands, she gave him a teasing smile. "And you? What do you do, Cassim?"

"Whatever he wants, mostly," said Iago, before the man could open his mouth. Zumurrud laughed again, even as Cassim rolled his eyes and swatted his companion.

"I travel," he offered for a proper answer. "I have done a little trade here and there, have worked for a few people."

With deft hands, Zumurrud started carving up a pomegranate. The juice ran over her fingers, and she watched the knife rather than Cassim. "And some thieving."

"What?" Looking offended, Cassim placed one hand over his heart. "Why would-"

"You stole me," she said. Her eyes flickered up, the burning green, and her lips quirked. "Or at least the money for me. Is that not so?"

Cassim deflated slightly, then shrugged. "What can I say? I do not steal from the poor, or the innocent. I do not horde money in some vault. I simply... help it to move around."

"And that slick tongue of yours doubtless does not hinder you." She held out a piece of the pomegranate to him. "I am a freshly-freed slave whose brothers and father rebelled against the ruler of their lands. Why would I judge a thief? Here." As he took the piece, she raised her own, as if in toast. "To freedom."

 

 

With nowhere in particular to go, Cassim did not mind passing the rest of the day talking to Zumurrud as they walked the streets of Muskar. Iago complained now and then, but his heart was not really in it, and he seemed if anything vaguely interested in Zumurrud's story. Her family came from the outer reaches of the Black Sands, an area where oases had saved some of the land from complete desolation. A man named -- or who had taken the name -- Mirza had travelled to them from the areas more harshly ruled by Destane, and had asked for their help in opposing him. He claimed descent from the Emirs of the land prior to Destane's rule.

Zumurrud's family had helped him; her father was educated, her brothers strong, and all of them determined to help free their land. But at the last, when they had thought that there was hope, Mirza betrayed them and proved himself loyal to Mozenrath. Her father and brothers were killed, and Zumurrud taken as a slave. The slavers had thought they had found a good deal in her beauty and her skilled fingers, but she had not bowed to them as they had wished.

"I am sorry for your losses," was all that Cassim could offer, but she caught his eyes and nodded more perhaps to the sentiments she could see than to the trite words.

In return, she asked his story; he gave a somewhat edited one, talking of his time in Agrabah most. The Forty Thieves he did not mention by name, though he outlined his rise from captive to member to leader. (The word "King", he did not utter, though he felt it might have made her laugh again.) He did not intend to let the word "son" appear in his words, but it slipped in before he could help it, and Zumurrud gave him a curious look but did not press the matter. Knowing that she would recognise the name Aladdin, he kept that back also.

"You have led a most interesting life, Cassim ibn Mahir," she said lightly, as shadows began to paint the sky. "Were you to become a roaming story-teller, you would probably do well at it."

Cassim shrugged. "Your life has not exactly been boring either."

"Though I would have it return to being."

"Would you really?"

She laughed for a reply.

 

 

"I have no set destination," said Cassim, as they sought out lodging for the night. "And I would gladly accompany you. Where is it that you tend to go?"

Zumurrud cocked her head as she examined him, smile still on her lips. "How noble of you. As for destination..." she shrugged. "I had no land in mind. Though I have heard that Agrabah is beautiful. Presuming you are not fleeing from some law or other?"

It was said teasingly, and Cassim chuckled though he knew that he would be risking a lot just to set foot in Agrabah again. Strange that there were always tales of those who aided the poor by stealing from those above them, yet when someone did so before guards they would be arrested. Under Cassim, the Thieves had never hoarded what they stole, and it worked its way into the hands of more markets and farmers than rich men.

"I am not a wanted man in Agrabah." Technically it was true, at least to the extent that he was _unwanted_ in Agrabah by many. But it would be good to see Aladdin again, perhaps just one more time. "We can turn our steps that way if you wish."

Iago muttered something beneath his breath, but did not care to elucidate even when Cassim shook him a look. He had been sulking, it seemed, for most of the day. Even an offer of orange had not drawn him into the conversation, nor Zumurrud's smiles and more piercing comments.

Cassim bid her a good night's rest, and went to check on his horse before they evening was out. Once out of range, he sighed and shrugged Iago off his shoulder.

"Hey!" said Iago, catching himself in mid-air and glaring. "Watch it!"

"What is wrong with you today?" Cassim folded his arms across his chest and stood eye-to-eye with the bird. It was probably a scene which would have looked ridiculous anywhere else. "Is it really a matter of the money?"

Iago made a dismissive sound. "Well, the money's one thing, but you running round with that girl? I'm getting lovey-dovey flashbacks already, and it's only been a day!"

"Lo-" Cassim almost choked with shocked laughter. "Iago, she is half my age! She was a slave, and I spoke the truth when I said that I would not see her bound. You told me of your past."

"Low blow," muttered Iago, and flew upwards to settle on a rafter. Cassim rolled his eyes at the obvious attempt to escape the conversation.

"Do you find her somehow objectionable?" Raising his voice slightly, Cassim let challenge seep into it. "Would you rather not travel with her?"

"I'd rather be travelling for us, not for her."

Ah, so there it was. He chuckled and shook his head. "Jealousy does not befit you, Iago. Better red than green. Come, we can return to Agrabah for a few days, see if we can intrude upon the hospitality of the Princess and the new Prince, and if Aladdin has heard of anything in need of investigating then we can do so.”

“What happened to the sword of Arsalan?” Iago stuck his head over the edge of the beam. Even with a beak, he managed to give the impression of scowling. “Or the Babr-e bayan? The golden apples?” His tone had become just a little bit pleading towards the end.

Cassim spread his hands. “From Agrabah, we will go after whatever treasure you wish, Iago.”

“I get seventy per cent.”

“Thirty.”

Iago rustled his wings. “Fifty-fifty, and that’s my final offer.”

“Done,” said Cassim. He extended his hand as if to shake, and Iago came down and settled on it in their sign of a deal struck. “And no complaining tonight.”

Iago made a rude noise, which probably indicated that he wasn’t agreeing to that particular part of the bargain. But Cassim supposed that was close enough.


	2. Chapter 2

They found a caravan departing for Quirkistan only two days later, and in the meantime Zumurrud asked only for a piece of silk fit for a belt, and sewing silk in whatever colours he could procure. She remained within the lodgings while Cassim found a gathering of local men playing mancala for money, and proceeded to earn a tidy sum from each of them.

When they went to join the caravan, Zumurrud was wearing a heavy veil and kept her eyes downcast, but Iago was complaining about the heat too incessantly for Cassim to be able to ask her what was happening until they were almost ready to depart. It was only as he was helping her onto the camel – he had half-expected her to refuse, and to walk – that he got the opportunity.

“You seem nervous,” he said quietly, as she settled herself and pulled her bag onto her lap, opening it to reveal her silks inside.

“Mozenrath meant me for slavery,” she replied, equally hushed. Her brilliant eyes did not sparkle in the same way that they had before. “It is possible that he has spies watching.”

Before he could say anything more, they started moving, and he collected Iago from chatting up a nearby pigeon so that they could move out.

 

 

For the first couple of days, the caravan remained muted, with no real sound save for the orders given to the camels. By the third day, though, conversation started up, and Cassim found himself drawn into talk with a trader who was headed for Agrabah, and who waxed lyrical about the beauty of the Princess’s wedding eighteen months ago. It took a constant supply of dates to keep Iago quiet on the subject.

Even Zumurrud seemed to relax as they left Muskar behind them and the desert took full hold of the land. She wore a lighter veil, and though her hands were always busy at her silks she began to talk with the other women travellers. They laughed and chattered, and by the fifth day Cassim was as surprised as the others to hear a voice raised in song.

He turned, brushing sand from his beard, to see that it was Zumurrud that was singing. It surprised him. Less surprising, though, was that her voice was as beautiful as her features, and she sang classical songs with perfect intonation. Not only classical, though: come evening she switched to a water-collecting song, and the other women joined in while the men looked on in vague bemusement.

“Come,” said Cassim over their dinner that evening, flatbread and stew to which everyone had contributed something. “Let me see what you have been working on.”

He reached across to the silk which seemed to be permanently in Zumurrud’s lap, but she playfully hid it in a fold of her skirt instead. “Ah-ah! It isn’t finished yet!”

“I am sure it will be beautiful nonetheless,” he replied. “For all that you have been sewing on the back of a camel.”

She regarded him from beneath thick dark lashes, then folded her arms. “A trade. You tell me a story from your youth, and I will let you see my work.”

“My youth!” Feigning offense, Cassim gave her an affronted look. “Do you suggest that I am not still in the prime of it?” As she laughed, he helped himself to another of the flatbreads on the plate between them. “Very well. A story for a look. Do you expect me to go first?”

“Of course.”

He rolled his eyes, but had expected nothing less, and settled more comfortably on his mat. “Very well, then. When I was young, I set out in search of adventure, or at least or some way of making money for my family. I told you that.” He waved a hand vaguely. “I was in the town of Rasada, in the western reaches of Agrabah. I heard a rumour of an ancient tomb beneath the sands, where a prince had been buried with eight golden statues. Or eight silver statues, or eight diamond statues, depending on who you asked.”

“You were interested,” said Zumurrud. Even by the firelight, she was sewing, though her eyes moved between her hands and Cassim’s face regularly.

“Who would not be?” Cassim shrugged, then shifted to stretch out his legs. They tended to stiffen in the evenings, a point on which Zumurrud had teased him only once before finding herself sore in the evenings from riding the camel as well. After that, she had instead offered him the aloe, though he had declined. “So I asked around some, rolled some dice with old men – because no matter what they say about old women, old men are the worst for gossip, I promise you. And I heard of a cave entrance to the north of the town, which was supposed to be haunted or somesuch.

“I set myself up with water, rope, torches – the usual tools – and set out for the cave at dawn. There were many tracks outside, horses and men, and signs of a camp, but they looked a day or two old and it looked as if they led off again. So I thought nothing of them. I let myself down into the cave, leaving a rope to let myself out again. It went down perhaps... forty or fifty feet. Not unthinkable. It was dark down there, not pitch-black but very dark, and it took me a while with a torch to find a narrow passage deeper in to the cave.

“It must have been less than a foot wide in places, and went on for... I do not know. I lost track. The torch sputtered and threatened to go out while I was down there, but it held. Eventually, the passage opened up again into a second, smaller cavern, with a circular pool of water in the centre and no sign of a way out.

“At first, I thought that I might have taken the wrong route, but there had been nothing else that appeared to be a viable passage. I went to take a step into the water, but the sides seemed to be sheer and I could not reach the bottom. But there had to be nothing. I stepped back and waited for the surface of the water to still again, but it did not – there had to be a flow from somewhere.”

Pausing, a strand of silk still between her teeth, Zumurrud looked at him with wide eyes. “You did not.”

Cassim smirked. “Oh, I did. I had to douse my torch and search the walls of the pool with my bare hands, but I found it: a tunnel, leading deeper. I followed it through, into the darkness, and finally it rose up again. It... should have been into darkness, but there were torches there, and before I could think, I was grabbed and pulled out of the water.”

“The tracks that you had seen earlier?”

“Indeed. Most of the group had left for better camping grounds, taking the horses with them, but eight thieves were already in the caves.”

He had more of an audience by now, a handful of people around their fire already and a couple of people from the other fires turning to look as well. Even Iago had grown quiet, seemingly interested but possibly just wondering what the hell Cassim was talking about now. It did not overly matter; Cassim was censoring the subject, not mentioning the number of the thieves for a start.

“The cave was booby-trapped. One of them had burned his hands with some sort of thick acid that had seeped from the walls when he tried to climb to a passage above. So they forced me to go on instead. I used knives to scale the wall, though they were still destroyed in the climb, as were my boots. They made me throw down a rope so that they could follow them up. 

“The passage went on a way further, and one of them pushed me aside to go past. I am glad that he did. He trod on a stone with a dark marking on it – not our script, older perhaps. Each of the tiles had a marking on it, and some of them almost looked like letters. Anyway, this man trod on one, and jumped back with a curse, complaining of a pain in his foot. He looked at his sandal to find a hole punched through it, and a small wound on his sole. He had barely seen it when he started to shake, and his eyes rolled back in his head and he foamed at the mouth. He died in seconds.”

Some of the other listeners gasped, but he could not read Zumurrud’s expression. “Poison,” she said softly.

Cassim nodded. “Again, of course, they made me go first. This time I used a stick to test each stone before stepping on it, starting with the one that had poisoned him to see how much weight was needed. They waited for me to cross, then followed. Finally, we came to a narrow, dark passage, so small that I could barely squeeze through with all the breath out of my lungs. I was relieved that there were no traps in it. And then, on the other side, was the burial chamber.”

“There truly was one?” said one of the men, apparently forgetting his role as quiet listener. With a muffled chuckle, Cassim nodded.

“Indeed. It must have been ancient, to see how rich it was. There was this stone structure, about so high,” he gestured at about three feet off the ground, “and large enough to contain a body. There were earthenware jars around the room, painted red and black, the old sort that you see sometimes in the deep desert. And set into the far wall, on stone shelves, were eight golden statues.”

“Golden, or gold?” said Zumurrud. She was sewing again, her eyes on her lap save for the barest flicker towards him. “There is a difference.”

Cassim wagged a finger. “That would be telling. Now, of course the men think that the alcoves might have traps as well, so they order me to take down one of the statues for them to look at. Each statue was about...” he measured it in the air with his hands; “eight inches high, no more, human figures holding objects in their hands. Old gods, I presumed. I looked around each alcove as best I could in the torchlight, but could see nothing there, so wrapping my hand in the fabric of my cloak I reached out and took one of the statues.

“Nothing happened. One of the thieves snatched it from my hands, and for a moment I felt sure it would burn his unprotected skin, but still there was nothing. Could they really have been so many traps, only for there to be nothing at the last? It all seemed too easy.”

“I stepped back as they rushed past, grabbing the remaining statues from their alcoves. As one of the thieves picked up the last one, however-”

It was the theatrical streak in him, he knew, but he had to pause and let the moment linger in the air, long enough that even Zumurrud paused and fixed her astonishing eyes on him.

“A clicking sound started behind the walls, just one at first, then more and more, until the air was filled with chitters and clicks and the sound of thousands of feet. There was a gust of air, and some of the torches flickered out, and panic spread among the thieves.

“Each of the alcoves seemed to melt away, and from behind them poured insects, fat black beetles with shining carapaces. Click, click, click, their giant pincers reaching out for us. Two of the thieves lost their nerve and ran straight back across the stones – they were dead from the poison before they reached the far end of them. The third was smart enough to throw me ahead of him, and luckily for all concerned I like to pay attention to where my feet fall. Of the five remaining, I managed to lead four to safety, with five statues between them.”

“And the beetles?” said one of the women, leaning in. Cassim did not look away from Zumurrud as he answered.

“Stopped by the water, for which I am grateful, else I am sure that I would not be here now.”

Zumurrud smiled. “And the statues?”

“Gold plate. The leader of the thieves tanned their hides for their stupidity, and spent a fair time lambasting them for being outthought by... well, I shan’t repeat how he describe me, but let me say that it was far from flattering terms. And thus...” he swept one arm out. “I lived to stand before you now. So, am I finally to be allowed to see your work?”

“And here was I hoping that you would have forgotten that by now.” Zumurrud looked down at her work for a moment longer, bit a thread short, then held out the strip of silk to him. And he could not help his gasp of wonder.

The silk had originally been dark green, rich as the finest gardens. Now it was mostly covered with ornate embroidery: trailing plants and delicate medallions, a border of scrollwork framing it all. Gold vines bore flowers of red, blue and white, sparkling with silver as if they still carried beads of dew upon them. The embroidery reached most of the way along the belt, but there was still a section to be done. Cassim realised that he was looking at the belt in absolute astonishment, and handed it back to Zumurrud as delicately as if it were one of the statues he had thought so long ago were gold.

The laughter still played in her eyes. “Well?” she said. “Do you think I will get a fair price for it?”

“You wove that whilst travelling on camel-back?” The question could not help but escape him. Camels were tricky beasts at the best of times, and rocked more than a ship.

“Well, I did not have it hidden about my person, I can assure you,” Zumurrud replied, but it was still teasing. She rolled up that part of the belt which was done, and returned to her work with the gold thread.

“And to think,” said Cassim, “that I offered money only for your beauty and your wit.”

Iago fluttered over and landed on Zumurrud’s shoulder. “You reckon you could make me one of those?”

 

 

At the next city at which they stopped, Zumurrud sold the belt for forty dinari, and bought silk for another before getting new clothes for herself and a knife for her hip. “I would have some protection,” she said, with a shrug, when Cassim raised a brow. She wore her heavier veil again, and did not raise it until the caravan left the city to continue on. The next stop was the border of Quirkistan, the leader told them, and from there it would be possible to find a caravan heading for Agrabah.

Two days into their travels, the attack came.

It was at night, while the camels were dozing and people were eating or telling stories around the fire, with only a couple of the men guarding the tents. A horn sounded in the desert – Cassim stiffened at the sound – and then seemingly from nowhere a horse and rider crashed through into the centre of the small camp.

He trampled one of the tents and reared in front of the fire, light glinting off the scimitar in his hand. People jumped to their feet, screaming and scattering; “Get down!” “Who are you?” “Don’t hurt me!”

Cassim drew the knife at his side as he stood, then had to throw himself aside as a second rider jumped right _through_ the flames and knocked down tents. He could hear the smashing of pots and the crunching of wood, then the clang of metal-on-metal as swords struck swords.

“Seven hells,” growled Cassim, rolling to his feet again. 

Hooves sounded behind him, and he turned just in time to grab hold of the saddle of the horse and pull himself up behind the man upon it. The man slashed vaguely at him, but only managed to graze his shoulder, and though his elbow caught Cassim in the chest it was not enough to wind him. Barely pausing, Cassim drove his knife deep into the man’s thigh.

Blood pulsed over his hand, and he kept the man’s sword but threw the body to the desert floor as the horse reared from the smell of it. Cassim dragged the horse under control, still cursing beneath his breath, and with his left hand pulled up the hood of his cloak. Probably better that his face not be seen for this. In an instant, his eyes scanned the figures in the campsite, travellers and riders and now bandits on foot as well, grabbing things from tents or trying to hold the travellers at knifepoint.

No, none of them was the leader. His eyes narrowed as they settled on a figure further back on the sands, away from the camp itself, with a sword at one hip and a horn at the other. “There,” he said to himself, and spurred the horse onwards.

The man was watching the camp intently, and did not react until Cassim was close by. “Stop-” he shouted.

But it was too late. Cassim leapt from the horse with a flurry of his cloak, bowling the man to the ground. Cassim’s sword was knocked from his hand as they rolled down the dune, and the man delivered a blow to his stomach that made him see stars. His back hit the ground, and he grappled with the man for a moment, two hooded figures in the darkness.

“You are not one of my men,” growled the man whom Cassim had attacked, and at the sound of their voice Cassim’s eyes narrowed. He reached up, blocking another punch strong enough to bruise his arm, and ripped away the mask of the one pinning him down.

A woman, then; he did not have time to consider his mistake before she caught him in the jaw with her left fist, and his head was knocked back against the sand. She reached to draw her sword, but he grabbed her wrist and twisted, just enough to hurt and to make her grip falter for one moment. It was all that he needed to flip her onto her back, using his weight to pin her down and wrapping one hand across her throat.

“Call off your men,” he growled.

“Perhaps I should call them onto you.”

Her eyes narrowed as she glared, and he saw the scar that crept down over the lid of her left eye. “Banu,” he hissed, and shock passed across her face before she placed the voice and the eyes which were all that she could see of him.

“Where are your forty now, Cassim?”

She squirmed to place a foot against his hip, and would have kicked him off had he not rolled them to the side. She still managed to get enough space to twist out of his grip, and pulling the horn from her side blew two short blasts.

Cassim drew his knife, but did not make to attack her again. “Last I heard, you planned to end a life like this.”

“You know how easy that is,” she replied darkly, then grabbed the reins of the horse which he had ridden over on, swung herself into the saddle, and was gone in a clatter of hooves.

 

 

The travellers gathered cautiously. Things had been lost, but no-one had been killed and Cassim’s bleeding shoulder was among the worse of the injuries. Mostly bruises, and blows to pride, had been doled out. Cassim angrily removed his hood and cloak, but sat still enough as Zumurrud washed the wound and sewed it up for him.

“As long as you do not embroider me,” he said.

It did not bring forth a smile, and as she was sewing up his shoulder – small, neat stitches that hurt like the devil but would probably keep the scar neat – he sat and waited for what was troubling her. When she tied off the thread without even saying a word, though, Cassim caught her wrist and looked into her eyes until she flinched and looked away.

“The belt on which I was working was stolen.”

“Your skills are good. You can make another,” he said, though he could tell already that was not what she feared.

Zumurrud pressed her lips into a tight line and shook her head angrily. “If they have any links with the slavers who sold me, they will know that it is my work. My being free is bad enough, without heading back east again.”

“Towards the Land of the Black Sands,” he guessed.

“Even in that direction. Perhaps Agrabah would be worse, considering the Prince and Princess have been known to fight against Mozenrath as well.”

Cassim started slightly, and Zumurrud took the opportunity to snatch her hand back, but her gaze turned curious. It was not Mozenrath’s name that had affected him, despite the fact that the young sorcerer had made quite the name for himself and that Cassim had banned his men from entering the Land of the Black Sands or trading with the sorcerer, no matter how tempting the price. One man had broken that rule, and he had never come back. They had only seen him once again, as a shambling corpse sent clutching a single scroll. On it was simply written: _Do not toy with me._ They never did find out the full story of what that man had done.

But no, it was the casual description of Aladdin as a _Prince_ which had so surprised him. King of Thieves had been a mockery of a title, to make fools of those who proclaimed themselves rulers because of the womb from which they had been born. In Zumurrud’s voice, however, there was a true respect.

“You know, I’ve heard a few stories,” said Iago, landing on the sand between them. Cassim could not bring himself to ask where the parrot had been during the fight, although he was at least relieved to see that Iago was not injured. “From this guy, knows this guy, whatever. If you wanted to hear them.”

Iago feigned nonchalance, picking at his feathers, but Cassim could see the look in his eyes. He was enjoying having someone else around as well.

Zumurrud gave a smile which was at least a ghost of its usual self. “Well, I do not imagine that I will be sleeping much tonight,” she said. “Come then, o mighty teller-of-stories, let us hear what the winds have seen fit to whisper to you.”

Puffing his feathers up, Iago looked like he wasn’t sure whether to smile or be insulted. After a moment, though, he settled for the attention, and began regaling a few of Aladdin’s adventures once again.

 

 

The traders of the caravan were pragmatic about their losses; bandits attacked from time to time, they said, and as long as they and their wives were not hurt then they would cope. Aside from the loss of the belt that so worried her, Zumurrud’s small pack of belongings remained intact, and likewise Cassim had not been robbed. It was the family travelling with the caravan, a wedded couple with a daughter nearing adulthood and a slightly younger son, for whom the small losses mattered the most. As they stopped for water during the heat of the following day, Cassim saw Zumurrud embrace the woman and daughter in turn and speak to them, and caught the glint of coins passing hands.

“Every time,” muttered Iago, who had made himself a canopy out of a stick and Cassim’s cloak. “Every time, I fall in with the humanitarians.”

It was probably good, Cassim reflected, that he could not see the smile it put on Cassim’s face.

 

 

The second attack came three nights later. Long enough for them to begin to think that they would not be attacked again, but not long enough for them to reach the next city.

This time, it was later into the night, the fires having burnt down to embers to let those on guard keep their night vision intact. Cassim awoke, eyes snapping open, as once again a horn sounded across the dunes. His hand flew to the knife he still carried, and he was on his feet and stepping out into the night air just as the first of the horses careened into the tent.

“Damn fools-” he started to growl, but got no further. Something struck him on the back of the head, pain flashed red and white across his eyes, and then everything went black.


	3. Chapter 3

“Hey! Your _majesty_! Wake up!”

Cassim had experienced better wake-up calls than being kicked in the head by an angry parrot. Then again, he had experienced worse ones as well.

“Cassim! I know you ain’t dead, I can see you breathing!”

“Iago...” he groaned, lifting one hand to his head. Cassim opened his eyes, winced at the torchlight around, and pushed himself up to a seated position. There was no sign of the bandits, and one of the men from the caravan was next to Cassim, a concerned expression on his face. “Is everyone all right?”

“You’re the one who was unconscious,” the man pointed out. Rayan, that was his name. Cassim tried to get to his feet, but almost landed on his ass again before Rayan caught his arm and helped him upright. The land swayed, and Cassim gritted his teeth. “No-one else is hurt. But the woman you travelled with has been taken.”

“Zumurrud?” His head snapped upright, and he felt a rush of strength which made it easier to stand still. Cassim grabbed Rayan’s arms, gripping so tightly that the man flinched. “What do you mean, taken? By the bandits?”

Rayan just nodded. Claws bit into Cassim’s shoulder, a wing brushing his cheek, and he looked round to see Iago looking at him pointedly. With an apologetic look, he released Rayan and took a step back, looking around the camp.

“You’re gonna go after her, aren’t you?” said Iago.

Cassim ignored him. “Which way did they go?”

“To the north, up those high dunes. When they reached the top, though-”

With a pointed ruffle of his feathers, Iago leant forward and interrupted. “Flash, whoosh, they’re gone. Gotta be magic.”

“We are less than a day from Iriddin,” said Rayan. “We will set out at dawn. From there, you can get someone to help you find her.”

“I will be quite capable of finding her myself,” he replied hotly. “But first I will see the site of this magic.”

Without waiting for either Rayan or Iago to say anything else, he turned on his heel and stalked towards the dunes which had been pointed out. Banu, the brat. Last time that he had seen Banu Goshasp, she had been seventeen and stealing to survive herself, fighting with men in back streets and taunting the guards who could not catch her. Cassim had spared her the wrath of his men – lied to them, told them that he had killed her himself – and told her to make a better way for herself. There had been a dark streak in her even then, though. It did not surprise him that their paths would cross again, more than a decade later, but he was angry that she would so deliberately cross him when she knew who he was.

What he was capable of.

“You’re gonna get us tangled up in this,” grumbled Iago, on his shoulder. “Or try to. Look, it’s magic, there’s probably not gonna be any sign there at all.”

He shot the parrot a glare. “Magic is your speciality, considering your former master, but I’ve seen some of it in my time as well. Besides,” his head twinged as the dune turned steep beneath his feet. “I thought that you wanted adventure.”

“No, I wanted _treasure_ ,” Iago replied. “The adventure was an unfortunate by-product.”

They reached the top of the dune, where Rayan had said that the horses had last been seen. In the light sand, the hoof-prints were already almost gone, but Cassim could see that there had been a disturbance here all the same. He crouched down, frowning at the ground.

“See? Nothing here. Let’s go.”

“Wait, Iago.” Holding up one hand, Cassim reached down with the other and scooped up some of the sand that lay scattered at his feet. His frown deepened. “There is black sand in this.”

“Oh hell. Bone boy.” Iago put his head under his wing, and Cassim looked at him for a moment trying to decide whether it was his usual annoyance or a deeper fear. Unable to tell, however, he let the sand drift through his fingers again and rose to his feet.

“Iriddin first,” he said firmly. “Then a fast horse to the Land of the Black Sands. There’s something more going on here than just a rebellious woman sold into slavery.”

 

The day that it took to Iriddin seemed torturously slow. Cassim refused to ride one of the camels, but shaded his eyes with his ghutrah and fought to ignore the way that his temples throbbed. Rayan and a couple of the others approached him, concerned, but the dark look in his eyes turned them away again.

Barely had they breached the gates of Iriddin when he left the caravan, found a horse trader, and stood back to examine man and horses both.

“He’s the sort to keep the best for himself, and sell the others for twice their worth,” Cassim commented to Iago. The parrot had been mutinously silent, and Cassim wasn’t sure whether that was a better or worse sign than trying to argue him out of his idea.

Iago snorted. “I hope you aren’t thinking of paying twice their worth.”

“Of course not,” said Cassim, almost offended in tone. “Besides, I’ve never been against taking an unfair trader down a peg or two.”

It was almost too easy to partially cut the ropes that bound the horses in, cause a small distraction, and take the trader’s horse whilst he was trying to round up his wares again. Cassim was fairly sure that he could be out of the city by the time that the man even noticed that the best of his slightly questionable selection of horses was gone.

 

 

It took him eight days to reach the borders of the Land of the Black Sands, and another five to come within sight of the castle. Perhaps it was the very old, but apparently still effective, protective amulet which he wore around his neck that prevented him from encountering any magical barriers along the way, or perhaps it was just his anger burning so hot that it cut through them like a knife.

“Have I told you just how bad of an idea this is?”

“Several times, Iago,” Cassim replied. He was at the last cluster of houses before the empty expanse that surrounded Mozenrath’s palace; all of the inhabitants of the place were glassy-eyed. Doubtless Mozenrath knew that they were here, but hopefully he did not realise yet just what that would mean.

Cassim was carrying a scimitar and several throwing knives, and had covered the golden hand on the clasp of his cloak.

“Bloody stupid...” Iago’s mutters trailed off into general frustration as he ducked beneath Cassim’s cloak again, out of sight of the innkeeper. Cassim doubted that his horse would still be at the stable if he were to return this way, but he paid for a few days in advance. Just in case luck was on his side for once.

“Stupid? Possibly,” acknowledged Cassim. He took one last long drink of the water which he had drawn from the town well, then set aside the cup and checked the waterskin was in place on his hip. “Bloody? I hope not...”

Iago shifted around. “If you get yourself killed, I’m going back to Agrabah.”

 

 

He got within perhaps a mile of the castle before anything got in the way. Whether that was the point at which Mozenrath noticed or the point at which he realised that Cassim was _intentionally_ headed for the castle, Cassim did not know, but then again he did not have much time to care either.

The ground rumbled and shifted, suddenly enough that Cassim cursed and almost lost his footing. With a squawk of alarm, Iago flew out from beneath his cloak and took up place ten feet in the air, a position which he generally considered safer than at human level.

“What-” Cassim began to ask, but then the sand – more grey than black, if truth be told, but perhaps all the more desolate for it – opened up beneath him and a long, segmented black leg came out.

“That is _not_ good,” said Iago.

Cassim could not help but feel that was an understatement. Another leg followed the second, hairs six inches long prickling from its shiny surface, and then the huge bulk of an Unkhbut heaved out from beneath the ground.

In his youth in Agrabah, he had heard stories of the Unkhbut. Mostly they were a story used to frighten small children, to stop them from trying to go down into basements and peer beneath loose stones in courtyards. Cassim had never seen one before.

Iago’s comment of, “That is _not_ a normal Unkhbut,” however, suggested that the parrot was rather more familiar with them.

Hissing and clicking, the Unkhbut reared up, lifting two of its legs high enough into the air that Iago had to dodge aside. Its fangs were each as long as a man’s forearm, a sickly translucent-green fluid shining on them. Cassim didn’t remember the Unkhbut being venomous, either. He dived aside as the spider plunged down towards him, sinking its feet into the sand and then turning, body low, to follow as he rolled to his feet once again.

Drawing his scimitar, he circled the creature warily. The sand beneath its feet had flowed flat again, no sign that another was following it. “Iago, you know these things?”

“Al and Jas made nice with them,” Iago replied. He darted in front of the Unkhbut, and with another hiss it slashed at him with one leg. “This one doesn’t seem to be like the others, though.”

Cassim stepped to the side as one of the legs stabbed down where he had been standing. His blade slammed against the leg, but only made a ringing sound and jarred up his arm. The Unkhbut clicked its pincers and swiped at him, forcing him to duck below its reach.

From here, he could see its eyes, each of the eight as large as his fist and shining black in the dull sunlight. They were glassy, though, without the sharp wit of an animal, and it made him hesitate just long enough for the next slash to catch his shoulder with an edge as sharp as a blade – a serrated one, at least. Grunting, Cassim stumbled back, but when the creature lunged for him again he was still agile enough to dodge aside.

“Are you watching, sorcerer-Sultan?” he called, looking straight at the Unkhbut. “Watch this.”

Like a blind automaton, it turned towards him to lunge again, just as it had each time before. This time, though, Cassim rolled beneath its blow and rose to one knee to slash his scimitar right across the creature’s many eyes.

It screamed, a piercing sound of agony, and Iago made a disgusted noise from his position in the air. “Oh, yeah. That was a smart move.”

“If you won’t be helpful-” Cassim avoided the blind lash of a leg. “Then at least be quiet!”

He struck at one leg again, this time aiming right for the joint between the two segments of it. The blade struck home, earning another cry, and when Cassim wrenched it away the leg buckled and snapped under the Unkhbut’s weight. Its legs began to thrash madly, until Cassim was forced to retreat from its writhing form, cursing that he could not even put the thing out of its misery. He was still wondering how to when the sand beneath it shifted with a hissing like a great snake, and it was swallowed up whole once again.

“I’d say he’s watching,” said Iago.

Frustrating as it was, Iago was right, and Cassim did not have a horse to cover the last mile at speed. Tucking away his sword, and smearing himself with the junk that passed for blood within the Unkhbut as he did so, he started moving again, walking fast up the hills but letting coming down them more quickly as the slopes helped him out.

Iago reappeared at his shoulder. “Were you really expecting this to be easy?”

He shot the bird a withering look, though it might have been hard to read it well behind his mask. Despite Iago’s grousing, however, Cassim was almost at the base of the citadel, empty mud-brick buildings looming up in front of him like a tomb, before the bird was proved right.

 _Something_ shambled out from one of the black doorways. It was shaped like a man, but did not move like one, all angles and dragging feet, and Cassim caught himself well before calling out. As the thing shuffled forwards, the smell of leather and decay came with it, and he wrinkled his nose.

“Mamluks,” said Iago. “Bone Boy’s favourite toy.”

“The more I hear of this sorcerer, the less that I like him,” said Cassim. “At least these ones do not move so quickly.”

“There’s gonna be more, though.”

He could hear them now, rasping and scuffing from the hollow-eye doorways and the shadowed alleys of what must have once been a village. It would not surprise Cassim if there was no-one alive here now – the air was thick with death and heavy with magic, not even rags or fragments of wood to indicate a living soul. Gritting his teeth and cursing his years all over again, Cassim began to jog, easily evading the reaching arms of the first of the Mamluks.

They moved so slowly that it would have been a game, had there been fewer of them. But they thickened, and even when he climbed to the roof of the buildings and began to run along them, jumping from roof to roof and avoiding the pits of trapdoors, they began to emerge. Hands reached up for him from between houses, and from the levels above they fell down to meet him. Most often they would stumble and struggle to rise again, and occasionally their dry bones would shatter and they would lie in moaning heaps upon the brick, but they were still obstacles.

“I hope this is worth it!” shouted Iago.

In the quieter stretches of desert, a talking – and moderately intelligent – parrot was a boon. Right now, it was not. Cassim drew his scimitar again and slashed as he ran, slowing as little as possible and hoping that the Mamluks now falling down would mean that there were fewer on the levels above. A clutching hand caught at his ankle, and he fell, but the twist bought him free again and he rolled to his feet clear of the groping fingers that had so nearly caught him.

“It will be,” he swore to himself, between gritted teeth.

He scooped up his blade, and cut straight through the Mamluk that rose up in front of him. Almost none of them even bore weapons, their fingers rotted away or perhaps their minds simply unable to grasp the concept, and those that did could easily be parried. It was the _numbers_ that threatened to overwhelm him, and horrified him as he pushed on. There had to be hundreds.

From nowhere, a fresher corpse lunged into him, still sickly with decay and with most of its flesh intact. Its jaw lolled open, and maggots spilled from it. One hand wrapped around Cassim’s wrist, so tight that the bones seemed to grind, unnatural strength flowing through the creature as it forced him back a step and the blade fell from his hand. He kicked, boot connecting firmly with its knee, but even the crunching of bone could not affect it and its other hand wrapped around his throat, clammy and as warm as the desert sand. There were others behind him, Cassim knew, but he struggled to draw a knife as its fingers tightened and his throat turned to fire.

A flash of red, and the Mamluk’s head was gone, snapped away at its fleshy neck. It slumped to the ground, twitching, and Cassim dragged in the air again, thanking a deity that he was not even sure he believed in any more.

Iago flapped above him, the head clutched in his talons, maggots still dripping from it. “You owe me!” he said, hurling the head away again.

This was probably going to take more than dates and wine to repay, but Cassim did not even have enough breath to shout his thanks. It was all that he could do to keep running; he had been right, and the Mamluks thinned as he approached the citadel, their numbers clogging the streets below. He sincerely hoped that he was going to think of a clever way to get out of here again.

He finally managed to draw a knife, and though it was no replacement for his scimitar it at least sat better in his hand than had empty air as he reached the bridge to the citadel itself. His scarf had been torn away somewhere in the struggles, the golden hand that clasped his cloak uncovered. Faint, grey-blue fires glowed in some of the windows of the building, but other than that there was only the fat moon and the bright stars to light his way as he ran out along the narrow bridge.

Two Mamluks stood at the far end, spears clutched in their hands for so long that their flesh had desiccated around the wood. Cassim did not even slow as he reached them, knocking one to the ground and slashing off the arm of the other in a single stroke. The doors stood closed, great black stone that seemed to suck up even the starlight, but as he reached them he put his shoulder to them and they slid slowly but silently open.

The halls inside were lit by torches that burned almost white, though their wood had no sign of being charred. As Cassim stepped inside, panting for breath, he released the door, and only realised that it was closing again when it boomed shut behind him. He ran his hands over the smooth stone, but there was no handle, nothing to grip, and a seam between the doors so fine that he could not have pressed his knife between it.

Iago came to settle on his shoulder again. “Yeah, he likes doing stuff like that. I hope you know what you’re doing.”

“I am the only man to have left the Forty Thieves alive,” Cassim growled. “I have dealt with magic more times than I can count.”

And still there was a flicker of fear in his heart at the thought of the Necromancer of the Black Sands. He did not let it rise to his lips, though, and instead stripped off what remained of his ragged cloak and threw it to the ground. There was hardly a need for subtlety now. Then, head held high, he began to search the corridors of the Black Citadel.

 

 

If he had not known that this place was sickly with magic, it would have been apparent within minutes. The corridors were too long for the narrowness of the spire, unbending and rarely branching, the floors a cold grey and the walls a colder white. The ceiling arched above him, the torches were interminable, and there were no doors to be found, no steps to be climbed.

Oh, he had dealt in magic, certainly. Weak amulets, with barely a few grains of gold to hold the charm of protection or luck or riches that they were supposed to carry. Curses that could be washed away with saltwater. This was of a different sort, deeper and darker.

He turned down another branch, and there was a crack that echoed through the hall. Cassim clutched at his chest, and Iago gave a worried squawk, but it was only his amulet. It had cracked in two straight down the centre, the golden surface tarnished and blackened. He threw it to the floor and kept walking.

Finally, a great set of doors came into view at the end of the corridor. They were of the same black stone as clad the outside, with huge metal rings set into them. But unlike the citadel doors, they seemed to fall open willingly at his touch to reveal the room beyond: a circular throne room, with a black-metal Karkadann standing over the throne itself like a parody of Agrabah’s palace. The throne was cold and black as well, flanked with the silver-flamed torches, and on it, unchained and unbound, sat Zumurrud.


	4. Chapter 4

This time, he did not care whether or not the doors closed behind him. “Zumurrud,” he said with a sigh of relief, starting across the room towards her.

Her eyes went wide. “No, Cassim!” There was fear in her voice, but anger as well, defiance. Her fingers worked at something in her lap even though she was not looking, and he saw a glitter of thread there. “Get out! What are you doing?”

“Getting you out of this accursed land again,” said Cassim, but mid-step he felt something twine around his leg and hold him in place. Looking down, he could see nothing, unless the faintest suggestion of a shadow was not just his eyes playing tricks on him. He tried to raise his other foot but found that snared as well, and when he tried to move his arms they were trapped. Some invisible bond wrapped itself around him, twining about his limbs, growing tighter with each time that he pulled against them.

“I told you to _go_ ,” Zumurrud said, and he looked up to see her still sitting in the chair. If he looked more closely, though, there was tension in her muscles, and he realised that she fought the same invisible ties that he did.

Slow applause echoed around the room. “Not bad. I did not expect you to get this far... but then again, at first I did not know who you were.” A figure stepped from the shadows, too suddenly for it to be anything but magic. The necromancer Mozenrath was barely more than a boy, his skin unnaturally pale, dressed in blue and black with a heavy gauntlet on one hand. His mocking claps had a dull sound to them.

Cassim looked the boy up and down. “Mozenrath, I presume. You’ll forgive me if I don’t bow.”

Mozenrath gave a short, humourless chuckle as he let his hands fall to his sides, slowly crossing the room towards Cassim. A shape slithered over his shoulder, then took to the air at his side – something that looked for all the world like a flying eel. Without moving his head, Cassim glanced around, but Iago was nowhere in sight; he probably would have made himself known anyway.

“Well,” said Mozenrath finally, with a dramatic flourish at his captive. “Look what my little spider caught in her web! The King of Thieves would be enough of a prize... but Aladdin’s father? Oh, what a marvellous find.”

“Mozenrath, let him go,” said Zumurrud. “It was my work that you wanted, and you have it. He is no concern of yours.” If she news of who he was surprised her, she did not let it show.

The sorcerer turned to give her a look of calculated anger. “Now, now, it never does to turn down a gift when it is given. If Banu Goshasp and her men had told me straight away that it was him with whom you travelled, I might have asked them for two captives. But never matter.” He looked back to Cassim again, and his lips curled into a tight smile. “I derived quite some entertainment from your little flight up here. It gave me a chance to see what you were capable of and, I have to say, the rumours were not exaggerated. You still have more skill than most men half your age, old man.”

Knowing a taunt when he heard it, Cassim ignored the twisted compliment. “What do you want with her, Mozenrath? The rebellion is done, and you sent her away. Why suddenly drag her back?”

Mozenrath’s gauntleted hand flexed at his side with a strange rattling sound, but Cassim forced himself to look the young man in the eyes instead. He would have sworn that they were black, without even a hint of brown in them. Mozenrath gestured to the air around them. “It came to my attention that I had let a little something slip through my fingers... oh? You did not know?

Cassim had been keeping a straight face, not letting his uncertainty show. He forced himself not to look at Zumurrud, though from the corner of his eye he could see her hands still working, still sewing.

“The thing about magical artefacts, your Majesty,” he continued, making the title sound far more scornful than Iago had ever done, “is that one rarely hears true or simple tales of them. Half-truths and rumours, each one hidden beneath a dozen complete fabrications. So when I heard rumours of a girl in my kingdom with charmed hands, I gave it little thought – until I was bought the possessions of a family who had defied me, and found among them needlework that would not only put the clothes of the Sultan of Agrabah to shame, but had a sense of magic about them.”

At his shoulder, the eel snickered. “Reeked of it, they did, oh yes.”

Well, if parrots could talk, it should probably not be surprising that flying eels could do so as well. Mozenrath ignored his companion. “I spoke to a few... old acquaintances of the family. It took a while locating their graves and having them exhumed, of course,” he added with a wave of his hand, “but that is little. And I discovered the most intriguing story. A tale of a man who came across a bottle and made use of the genie within, but did not ask for grand things or princehood... no.” Again, the cold smile. “He kept his three wishes simple. Good health for his wife, who was sick after childbirth; for the springs that fed their village to never run dry or become foul; and for his daughter to be so skilled with a needle that she might never fear hunger or be without work. “Of course, genies are powerful creatures. And I understand this one had... questionable control over her power. Would you like to tell him what form the magic took, my dear,” he called to Zumurrud, “or shall I?”

“I am no dear of yours,” she replied coldly.

Mozenrath looked her over. “Oh, with what Banu asked for your return, I can assure you that you re dear indeed. But never matter.” He turned back to Cassim, still with that cold smile upon his face. “Eight days. That was how long the man kept the genie, and so that was how long the genie made her spell last. Given eight days, and the right materials, the girl would be able to sew anything. A belt. A curtain. A niqab. No matter how complex, it would be completed in eight days, and it would be exquisite.”

“But you didn’t go to all this trouble for fine clothes,” said Cassim.

Mozenrath’s smile grew wider, showing his very white teeth, and he clasped his hands together in front of him. “My, the mighty wit shows itself again. No, I did not. Recall that I said _anything_.” With a flick of his wrist, he gestured to the hall around them. The unnatural light of the torches made everything hard to see, but as Cassim’s eyes grew used to them he could see that there were faint shadows criss-crossing the walls and ceiling, thrown up by something upon which his gaze could not settle. “And I thought to myself that such a skill is wasted on clothes, when it could be used for magic instead.”

Suddenly unable to speak, Cassim looking over to Zumurrud. The pain in her eyes was edged with fury, and though her hands still worked without her eyes to guide them, her gaze poured rage over Mozenrath.

His first thought was shock that she had not told him, but of course he had not said who he was, that he had some experience with genies. Why should she trust a stranger with such a secret, even one who would free her from the bonds of slavers? His second thought was like a twisting knife in his gut, that her parents had only wished to ensure security for her in her life, not to give her such power that this boy sorcerer would chase her halfway across the Seven Deserts.

“This,” said Mozenrath, after waiting just long enough to surely see the horror that passed across Cassim’s face, “was just a little test. Eight days, to see what she was capable of. And I have to say,” he added, to Zumurrud again, “I am impressed.”

He turned back to Cassim, now tapping one finger against his chin.

“You know, I had thought that one hostage would be enough, but perhaps two would be more suitable. And who knows; perhaps you will be of some use in bargaining with another Kingdom. I’m sure that Agrabah will want to claim you... for justice, of course. Your head is wanted in so many Kingdoms, after all.”

“Want his head,” snickered the eel. “Could just ransom the head.”

“A good point,” said Mozenrath, and laughed like a rattlesnake. “We shall see. For now... well, we have some room in the dungeons.”

Something clicked against the floor, loud in the emptiness of the room. Mozenrath looked round more in curiosity than anything else, and Cassim strained to see the glittering line of a hairpin that had dropped to the floor at Zumurrud’s feet. It glittered gold and red, and bore more than a passing resemblance to one upon which Iago had commented the last time that they were in Getizstan.

Her eyes still fixed on Mozenrath, determination written across them, Zumurrud slowly bent at the waist and picked up the hairpin from the ground. “Clumsiness,” she said.

“I did not think you the clumsy sort,” said Mozenrath. He frowned, and started to walk slowly towards her.

There was a flicker of red, far above them.

Zumurrud flashed a smile. “I did not say it was _my_ clumsiness.” She slashed at the air in front of her with the hairpin, and though Cassim could see nothing there he felt the bond around his left arm snap and unravel away. Another slash, and his right arm was free, and he raised his sword ready even as a third cut with the pin freed his feet.

“You!” snapped Mozenrath, but whirled on Cassim with lightning arcing from his fingertips.

Cassim threw himself to the ground, rolling and coming back to his feet all in the same move. Magic boomed through the air, and the floor where he had stood was blackened and cracked in his wake. He turned on Mozenrath, narrowing his eyes, but the sorcerer whirled his hands in the air and the torches all around the hall flared so brightly that it was like a slash across Cassim’s eyes.

He stumbled back a pace, trying to blink away the purple-black shadows in his vision. A low, metallic growl cut through the room like a knife, and it was instinct that made Cassim leap backwards even as something silver and white blurred through the air in front of him.

As his sight cleared, he saw it more clearly. A creature made out of the silver fire of the torches stood before him, something like a jackal but sleeker, all claws and teeth, as if all of the fighting spirit had been taken and distilled down into one beast. Every move made a sound like a sword rattling in its scabbard.

“Deal with him,” snarled Mozenrath to the beast. Cassim risked a glance to see the boy advancing in Zumurrud. “She is mine.”

The jackal leapt. Claws scythed through the air, and Cassim bought his scimitar up to block but barely reached it in time. The metal glowed red-hot where it came in contact with the beast, and though it was knocked aside it seemed unharmed as it continued to circle around him.

“You should be careful,” he heard Zumurrud say, “what it is that you ask me to sew.”

He risked another glance to see her arm whipping up, throwing some invisible line. Mozenrath’s gauntleted hand was raised, but the sorcerer snapped to a halt as if his wrist had been caught in some snare, and fury twisted across his features.

He had the chance for nothing more. The jackal lunged in again, and again it was all that Cassim could do to turn it aside with his blade; the third strike came with barely a pause, and his sword went from red to orange as he forced it between them again. He could feel the heat now even through the leather that bound the hilt, and as another strike, another desperate defence, brightened it further to yellow, he understood. There was only so long he could hold it off.

In the same heartbeat, another realisation came to him. The beast was slowly but surely forcing him back across the throne room, further and further away from Zumurrud.

The gem set in Mozenrath’s gauntlet flashed as he reached out his other hand towards the woman, cheeks flushing dramatically against his chalky skin. With a choking sound, Zumurrud reached up to claw at her throat, torso squirming but legs seemingly locked in place, feet still planted against the stone floor.

“Iago!” shouted Cassim. “A little help here!”

“You owe me _big time_!” Iago shouted, but like a bolt of red lightning himself he shot down. An instant later, Mozenrath’s hat had been pulled down over his eyes, and with an angry scream the sorcerer clutched at it with his one free hand. Iago took the opportunity to bite his wrist in the same moment, then to spit out blood as he whipped up again, away from the silver jaws of the jackal that now snapped in his direction.

Cassim had no doubt that he did. Finding some reserve of energy still, Cassim lunged forwards, sword outstretched, and plunged it up to the crossguard into the creature. The jackal screamed, the blade burned white-hot, and Cassim snatched his hand away from the burning metal as the fire began to writhe and turn in on itself, form becoming nothing at all and molten metal dripping to the floor.

Another flick of Zumurrud’s wrist, and Mozenrath’s other hand was caught in the air, shoulders straining as he tried to fight against it. He tossed his head enough that his hat was flung aside and turned furious eyes on the figure on the throne, but whatever Zumurrud had done, no more magic was forthcoming. She whipped out her hand again, and the eel was bound utterly in place, something even manage to wrap across its mouth to stop its damn chattering. It wriggled and humphed in the air, but nothing more.

There might have been a time when Cassim would have left Mozenrath awake, to watch the King of Thieves make another of his dashing, story-worthy escapes. Now he strode over to the boy, curled his burned right hand into a fist, and threw a punch that had knocked men twice his size to the floor.

Mozenrath’s eyes rolled closed, a reddish mark already starting to spread across his nose and beneath his eyes. Blood dripped from his nose. He slumped unconscious in his bonds, and Cassim shook out his hand and decided that his throbbing knuckles were completely worth it.

“That looked like you meant it,” said Zumurrud, still slightly breathlessly.

Cassim meant to run over to the throne, but his muscles betrayed him and a walk was the best that he could manage. She had cast whatever she had been working on to the floor, and rubbed her red-marked throat with one hand. “Thank you,” he said. “Had you not done that, I would still be captured.”

“Had you not come here, so would I,” she said, in a tone which managed to make it absolutely clear that she did not wish for this to turn into some sort of contest. She stuck the pin back into her hair. “Now come and get this girdle off me, and let’s get out of here.”

“Pardon?” There was nothing else that Cassim could really manage to say just at that moment. He had not really taken notice before of the fact that Zumurrud was dressed differently, but her simple dress and veil from before had been replaced with a blue silk gown, and a gold-embroidered belt wrapped around her waist. He was quite certain, though, that she could not have asked him to start removing her clothing whilst they were still technically in the midst of attempting to escape.

Zumurrud gave him a withering glance. “It is enchanted. I can’t leave the chair whilst wearing it, and cannot remove it myself.”

“Ah,” said Cassim. That made rather more sense. He hurriedly crossed the last paces, and Zumurrud held her hair back and breathed in to reveal the fine lacing at the centre of the girdle, holding it in place. Cassim’s fingers felt clumsy as he undid the small knot, and when he tried to snap the lacing it refused to budge beneath his fingers and he was forced to undo it fully to peel it away. “There.”

As soon as it left her skin, Zumurrud all but leapt to her feet, breathing deeply despite the chill of the air. Unless he was much mistaken, her dress was silk, and it swirled around her as she looked over to the unconscious sorcerer. Cassim could almost see the thoughts of vengeance that flashed before her eyes, but then they were gone and she looked away again.

“We have to go,” he said.

“The lower cells,” said Zumurrud firmly. Cassim frowned. “They are accessed from the ground, not from this citadel. We must go to them.”

“You mean...” it took him a moment to remember Mozenrath’s words, spoken in the heat of battle. “A hostage.”

Zumurrud paused, slowly rubbing the heel of her hand across her stomach. “My mother,” she said softly.

So used was he to loss that he had not even noticed, at the time that she spoke of her fathers and brothers, that her mother was missing from her tale. Zumurrud looked up at him defiantly, and for a moment she looked younger despite the firm set of her chin.

“I will not leave without her.”

“I would not dream of it,” said Cassim, and meant it. He looked around, at the ghostly half-shadows of the magic that Zumurrud had been made to weave. “Can you pull me down one of these strands? You can see them?”

She gave him an uncertain look, but reached up and wound something around her hand, tugging it down as if it was fabric. Cassim ripped away half of his sleeve and bound up his burned hand, the pain mostly subsided to a dull throbbing by now. He took hold of the strand as well, hand above Zumurrud's; it felt strangely warm to the touch, like silk left for hours in the sun, and gave slowly as he pulled it over to the balcony of the throne room.

Iago came to settle beside him again, and Zumurrud watched him warily. “What are you planning?” she said.

Unable to quite help it, he grinned as he held out his hand to her. “Do you trust me?”

“The King of Thieves?” Zumurrud snorted. “Absolutely not.” All the same, she slipped her hand into his. He climbed up onto the balustrade, legs protesting the effort a little but not making it impossible, and tugged gently on her hand to bring her up alongside him.

“A wise choice,” he said. He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close; she looked surprised but did not pull away and cautiously put her arms around his neck instead. “But I trust your handiwork.”

“Good to hear it.”

He nudged sideways until he felt the heat of the magic against his boot, then nudged his foot through so that it formed a loop all of the way around. Whether or not she realised what he intended, Zumurrud’s grip around his neck tightened, and with one final glance to the unconscious figure behind them, Cassim stepped off the edge and let them drop down through the air.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, yes, I have this terrible habit of leaving things on hiatus for a long time and then going back and finishing them. Sorry about that. Hopefully this is the penultimate chapter, and chapter six will be the last.

The wind whipped around them as they fell. Doing this on actual rope was always a rush enough; now it was as if they were falling through nothing, holding onto nothing, and he had to give Zumurrud credit just for the fact that she did not scream as they shot downwards. The strip of magic grew warm in his hand, but did not burn, and though the wall of the citadel shot past it was not near enough to worry him.

He tightened his grip as the ground approached, pressed his boots together to slow their descent, and they landed breathless but still standing, Cassim tightening his arm around Zumurrud as she stumbled. She pulled away from him, looking around them, and Cassim turned as well with one hand going for his knives as he recalled the dangers that had been outside the citadel as well as within.

“It seems we have some luck left,” he said, eyeing the slumped bodies of the Mamluks scattered on the ground around them. “It is their master’s will that drives them, after all.” One held a sword, rusted and pitted but still a weapon, in its hand, and Cassim stooped to pull it away. Flesh clung to the hilt, and he tried to not think too much of that fact. “Do you know how to find the entrance to the cells?”

“Mozenrath showed me,” said Zumurrud. “What use is a hostage unless it is proven, after all?”

There was a tightness to her voice, and her gaze was set and dangerous. He fell in behind her as she walked across the black sand, away from the pillar that supported the citadel and towards the city itself. While he had been running through the city, it had not struck him how tall was the pillar – how tall and yet so slender, twisting unnaturally. Another magic, he supposed, and was glad that this one held even without its master.

As they reached the city, they passed into streets, buildings with gaping windows like dead eyes in the dim light. The sky had been half-dark ever since they came near to the citadel, the passing hours making no difference, and Cassim had his suspicions as to the cause.

It took her no time at all to lead him to one of the tallest buildings, with a wide doorway that from the thickness of its walls must have once been impressive indeed. Now, though, it was old and worn, and for all his actions of the day Cassim was starting to feel the same. His shoulder ached where he had rolled across the marble of the throne room’s floor, and his knuckles throbbed. The punch had been worth it, though.

“You remember the way very clearly,” he said, at the fourth or fifth turn that took them deeper and deeper into the building. The air was becoming colder, and grimly he recognised the distant tang of blood.

Finally, they came to a door that had been truly barred, stout wood and iron. Zumurrud paused before it, then with her eyes flashing she bent and set her shoulder beneath the bar, in one fluid movement so swift that Cassim did not have the chance to stop her. Her saw the strain in her neck and shoulders, the huff of her breath, and stepped up beside her.

“Allow me to assist you.”

The look that she gave him, as she relaxed, was still not quite trusting. What had gone through her head as they walked across the sand, Cassim was not sure, but he knew the look of one who was coming to see what he truly was.

“Very well,” she said, however, with the slightest sag of her shoulders. He stepped up beside her and set his shoulder similarly beneath the bar. “One, two, _three_ ,” said Zumurrud.

The push which he gave turned to a grunt of surprise and effort; the bar was far heavier than it had any right to be, more than wood of this size should weigh. Cassim felt his body groan, and his foot slipped on the sand-strew floor, but finally it shifted, ground against the door itself, and slid upwards inch by painstaking inch.

As soon as it was free of its holds, he put a hand to the top and hauled it towards them both. “Stand clear!” he said, and they both leapt back as the bar fell to the ground with a hollow bang and lay there unmoving.

Zumurrud rolled her shoulder, resting her other hand upon it. “It seems there is nothing that Mozenrath will not add magic to,” she said. The wizard’s name was acid on her tongue, but without a hint of fear still.

“In any case,” replied Cassim, “at least the door is now open.”

She nodded to him, a hint of gratitude in her eyes. “Indeed.”

Iago fluttered down from the gloom above them, coming to rest on Cassim’s shoulder, and ruffled his feathers pointedly. “Isn’t this the time when we get the hell out of here?”

“We’re not finished yet, Iago,” said Cassim.

“Of course we aren’t.”

The door opened with only Zumurrud’s touch, but where he had been expecting darkness there was a lit corridor. The stones of the floor and walls were baked clay, red-grey in the light of the torches that burned with a normal-looking fire that still could not have been normal at all. Cassim took one of the torches from its bracket beside the door, pausing lest there was to be an immediate response from the torch itself, the walls, or some hidden pace. Mercifully, there was not.

“And how,” said Iago, still on Cassim’s shoulder and peering round very carefully towards the torch, “are we going to find our way to the dungeons?”

Zumurrud looked at the parrot, and for the first time since they had stood in the citadel her lips twitched towards, almost, a smile. “I would suggest starting by going down.”

“Oh, another comedian. Just what we needed.”

Both of them ignored him and began down the corridor. The first doorway to which they came had only stairs leading up, but the second opened onto a narrow, downward spiral staircase. It was unlit, and darkness seemed to creep around its curve.

He glanced over at Zumurrud. “Shall we?”

She had her arms wrapped around herself, and the hairs on them were standing on end; cold seemed to permeate the building, and there were no windows. But she nodded, and gestured for Cassim to go first on the way down.

“You know,” said Iago, more conversationally than his previous few cutting remarks, as they continued downwards, “I wouldn’t go in for this sort of thing, if I were building myself a palace. Lots of light and fresh air, that’s the ticket.”

“I cannot help but agree,” said Zumurrud.

“Now Mozenrath, sure, he’s got some smarts, but he’s got all that magic and you saw what he did to the place. Or didn’t do to the place, more like. If he didn’t spend so much time chasing after Al, he could really get things done around here.”

At the mention of Aladdin’s name, Zumurrud fell silent for a few steps. When she spoke again, her voice had a harder edge. “You know him too, then?”

Iago did not reply, probably realising too late what he had said, and Cassim gave him a sharp look. They came to a doorway, but the steps continued down and so they went with them, into the sucking darkness. “Then you heard. Yes, Aladdin is my son. Iago has known him for some years, from what I gather.”

“I could complain that you did not tell me,” said Zumurrud, “but it would hardly be fair when I kept so much from you in turn. I... understand.”

“You still sound none too happy,” he could not help but point out.

“Father of a prince is one thing. King of Thieves is quite another.”

“Once the King,” said Cassim, more softly, as they continued their descent. Another doorway came and passed. “No longer. The Forty Thieves have been disbanded.”

“The stories said that you were killed by Prince Aladdin.”

Of course they did. “I think you and I both know what tricky things stories can be.”

“And you?” said Zumurrud. Cassim wondered what she meant, until a glance to his shoulder told him that she was speaking to Iago again. They walked close together, to keep within the circle of firelight, but their words still seemed almost too loud and he kept his sword ready. “What titles have you been hiding?”

Iago scratched his beak with one foot. “I might have worked with the last Vizier of the place. The mad one. But I made up for it. Saved Al and Jas from a few scrapes.”

“Believe it or not, he’s telling the truth,” said Cassim dryly. They had confirmed it, before they had seen him leave. “Though he exaggerates how many times.”

“And I’ve saved you,” Iago reminded him, smacking him in the ear with one wing.

The stairs seemed to go on forever, another door passing by with no sign of the lowest level. “We must be deep beneath the sands by now,” said Cassim.

“Depending on the whims of magic,” said Zumurrud.

He had to admit that she was right. The laws of the world themselves could be bent by sufficiently powerful magic, and though Mozenrath was no genie the gauntlet that he wore spoke of how deep into magic he had reached.

“Were there many in here?” he asked.

With a deep breath, Zumurrud shook her head. “No. He said that this was ‘prepared specially’. I rather suspect that he does not usually take captives.”

“Or keeps them otherwise chained,” said Cassim, thinking of the Mamluks. If dead flesh could be manipulated, that of the living would surely be easier. Unless the mind was capable of fighting back, of course.

She did not answer him.

 

 

Finally, the base of the steps loomed up, so cold that it was worse than desert night. This door swung open easily at Zumurrud’s touch, perhaps too easily, and Cassim caught her arm to hold her back from entering immediately.

“You do not think Mozenrath will protect his prisoners?”

“If there is magic, surely it sleeps with him,” she replied. The tiredness now telling in her voice made him rather suspect that it was more hope than certainty. All the same, he held the torch in front of him and entered the room first, sweeping the torch left and right.

Sand crunched under his feet, but when he looked down it was the golden sand of Agrabah, not the native sand of this kingdom. Cassim crouched down, and rubbed some between his fingertips. “Iago, have you seen Mozenrath use sand such as this? For spells and the like?”

“Him? Nah,” said Iago. “But I’ve only met him a few times. Wouldn’t exactly call myself an expert. But this witch Sadira, I’ve seen her doing sand magic before.”

“Well.” Cassim straightened up, brushing his hand off on his hip. “I am grateful that whatever it is, it is currently dormant. But I would suggest that we move quickly.”

“This way,” said Zumurrud, sweeping past him. He hurried to keep up, and avoid her being swallowed by the darkness. “Mother!” Even only slightly raised, her voice seemed to ring on the stone walls that flickered at the very edge of the light, interspersed with bars. “Mother, it is me!”

She moved forwards and right from the door, which quickly dropped out of their circle of view. Iago shuffled a little closer to Cassim’s ear, claws tightening. Swiftly, though, another set of bars came into view, and Zumurrud stepped right up to them, pressing close.

“Mother, please, wake up.”

The woman sitting inside the cell, back to the wall, opened her eyes to glance at them then, frowning, looked a second time. She looked at Cassim with some puzzlement.

“I can’t imagine why that boy’s illusions would include you. Zumurrud,” she said, getting to her feet and crossing to the bars. “It is you?”

“Yes, Mama,” she said.

With a soft relieved sound, Zumurrud’s mother threw her arms around her and hugged her through the iron bars. Zumurrud hugged her back, holding on with her hands clenched into fists before peeling herself away with visible regret.

“We are leaving, now,” said Zumurrud. She turned to Cassim. “I daresay you have broken out of a cell or two in your time.” She pulled the pin from her hair, letting the dark waves tumble over her shoulders again, and pointed it towards him. “Am I right?”

“Why would you think that?” said Cassim, but he accepted the hairpin and handed Zumurrud the torch.

For a dungeon that had been guarded with magic, he was almost surprised that the lock would be an ordinary one, but perhaps they were meant to be two different sorts of safeguards. Zumurrud held the torch closer to the lock as Cassim knelt down before it, and with relatively little effort he was able to push the tumblers aside and let the door to the cell swing open.

Zumurrud’s mother patted him on the shoulder as she exited the cell. “Pretty _and_ useful. He can stay.”

He could see the similarities in appearance between the two women, although Zumurrud’s mother had more hazel eyes and her hair was heavily streaked with white. They were much the same height, and had the same quick eyes and proud tilt of the chin. Besides, to walk out of the cell and to speak with such calm spoke of a certain strength of spirit in itself.

“Mama, this is Cassim ibn Mahir. He has helped me greatly in my escape.”

“It was somewhat mutual,” said Cassim.

He saw a flicker of acknowledgement, perhaps even appreciation, in Zumurrud’s eyes. “Cassim, this is my mother, Sabah.”

“An honour to meet you, though I apologise for the circumstances,” he said.

“Come,” said Zumurrud, taking her mother’s hand. “I know the way out of here.”

The way back out was more arduous than the way back in, the stairs feeling more innumerable than ever, and Cassim would admit to having some words tumbling over in his mind about how Iago, at least, was not having to put any effort into it. They had to stop frequently for Sabah, who though she would not admit to it did appear to have been weakened by her time in the dungeons, and drank gratefully from the water that Cassim offered her. Zumurrud drank also, and Cassim allowed himself a few sips to wet his tongue again.

Finally, they were able to reach the surface again, and dim but natural light began to greet them as they made their way towards the outside world. Cassim kept hold of the torch, not certain of what they would find waiting for them, but did not voice his fears.

“It will be good to feel the wind again,” said Sabah. Even now, Zumurrud stayed close to her, and there was protectiveness in the lines of her body.

He did not ask how long she had been kept. He had spent time in jails himself, days or weeks or, on one unfortunate occasion, nearly two months before he had managed his escape. That had been before the Forty Thieves, of course; they would never have forgiven such a weakness from any of their members, let alone their leader.

“I fear we are some distance from the nearest living town,” he admitted, as they stepped out of the huge building again. “And we must keep moving. Iago, can you fly up and see any movement, see if our way is clear?”

“I don’t think I’m going to need to fly to check,” said Iago, looking behind them all.

Cassim turned to see Mamluks shuffling in their direction, and tightened his grip on the torch. “Damn it all! The boy must have gotten loose.”

Even the mightiest of punches would not have knocked him out for long, but Cassim had been hoping that Zumurrud’s work with the strands of magic might be enough to buy them some more time. He looked around, trying not to admit that it was desperately, but Mamluks were rising from the sand all around them, bringing with them the smell of death.

“Here we go again,” said Iago.

This time, though, Cassim did not have a sword. Well, that was the first thing that he would need to remedy. “Stay back,” he told Zumurrud and Sabah; Zumurrud immediately stepped in front of her mother and gave the Mamluks a venomous look. If she had not seen them before, she was doing well.

Cassim picked out one of the Mamluks who still carried a sword and shield, the items so heavy that they were pulling its leathery arms downwards. He ran straight towards it, timing his steps so that he could bring the torch around like a club straight into its head. It staggered, the scraggly remains of its hair catching fire, and Cassim grabbed hold of the shield and wrenched it from the Mamluk’s hold.

“Here!”

He looked round only long enough to be sure that he was hefting the shield in the correct direction as he threw it towards Zumurrud. It landed short, but she stepped forward, scooped it from the sand, and pulled off what he belatedly realised was the Mamluk’s rotten hand, still clutching the handle. She took hold of the shield in both hands and immediately smashed it against one of the encroaching Mamluks,

Cassim dodged the clumsy swing of a sword, struck another Mamluk with the torch, then grabbed the wrist of one of the dead things in his free hand and bought the torch down, hard, upon its elbow. The torch broke in a shower of sparks, but the arm and its sword came away, and Cassim quickly disposed of the former in favour of the latter. The sword was rusted and pitted, but it was at least a blade, and weighty enough that he was able to take the head off the next Mamluk to lunge in his direction.

There were dozens of them, though, and of his strikes only some were enough to end their shambling; rather more seemed only to drive them back a short way. More than once, dead fingers almost closed on his arm, and the offending Mamluk was only knocked away by fist or foot. Every time he glanced behind him, he could see Zumurrud shielding her mother and pushing away the Mamluks where she could, but she was less well-off than he, and slowly they were driven back towards each other.

“I must apologise,” he shouted, as they drew almost back-to-back. “It seems my rescue has not quite gone to plan.”

“Ah well,” she replied, with a grunt as she shoved two Mamluks away in the shame push, “winds blow counter to what the ship wants.”

“If we were at sea,” he kicked a Mamluk away; his boots were already smeared with their guts. “This would be easier.”

At least, he hoped, they would wish to take Zumurrud alive. Alive always meant another chance of escape, that was something which he had always known and often used. He would rather have had a more peaceful death of course, and one rather later in years, but hopefully at least there would be a good story to tell for this one. After all, a man could only ever leave behind two things – his children, and his stories.

One of the Mamluks grabbed hold of his arm and he had to wrench it away, almost staggering as another wave of exhaustion struck him. It was really rather embarrassing, all things considered.

Suddenly, there was a horse in front of him, its rider wielding a shining steel blade and cutting through the Mamluks as if they were a field of wheat. He blinked stupidly, but could only watch as more mounted fighters followed the first, circling all of the way around them and cutting down the Mamluks that had encircled them. When they had fallen, the first fighter trotted back towards Cassim, and lowered the veil across their face to reveal a wicked smile.

“Banu?” he said, still out of breath. That was a little embarrassing. “What are you doing here?”

“You’re right in some things,” she said. “You told me once that there was a better way than this. Perhaps it’s time that I took it.”

She slid down from her saddle and embraced him before he could do anything other than stare dumbly. Her hand thumped against his back, she laughed, and he gave a relieved huff of laughter in response.

“They will sing songs of you one day,” he said, as she stepped back.

Banu was still smiling. “I should hope so.”

She put her fingers to her lips and whistled sharply, and two of her men came trotting over, each with a riderless horse beside them.

“I found these in the nearest village. Suspect they’re yours.”

“Well, the better of the two is,” replied Cassim. Both horses were tacked and saddled, and looked fresh. A little nervous, but considering the amount of dead flesh that littered the sand they were really doing quite well. “But I won’t refuse the other.”

“Ever the opportunist.” She waved to them. “Go, take them.”

He turned back to Zumurrud and Sabah to see them both looking at him with uncertain, and rather shrewd, expressions. It was Zumurrud who responded, though, driving the shield she held down into the sand so that it stood upright. “You know the one who captured me?”

“We met in another life,” said Banu, before Cassim could manage a reply.

Sabah looked at her daughter. “You certainly do find interesting company.”

“Oh, you haven’t heard the parrot’s story yet,” replied Zumurrud. Iago puffed up, though whether it was indignant or proud Cassim could honestly not tell. “Now that, believe me, is a tale.”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would like to both apologise profusely to, and thank, those who stuck with me through the huge hiatus on this fic. I am glad to announce that it is finally complete.
> 
> My particular thanks to Cryl, for poking me back into writing once again. *salutes*

The weather was fine in Agrabah, as it often was. On this day, there were just enough thin clouds in the sky to prevent the sun from feeling too blazing, and the Princess and Prince had been in the city, visiting the new orphanage that they had established. It was something about which the Prince in particular felt very strongly, it was said.

This information was easily gleaned by the two men, and one woman, entering the city. The woman rode with the younger of the men, who took in the sight of the city with piercing green eyes, while the older of them hung back on his horse, a green hood and mask shading his face from the sun.

“So this is Agrabah,” the younger said.

“Indeed.”

The young man took a deep breath, and smiled. “Already I like it.”

As they entered the city, he loosed his cloak, and revealed a tunic covered with exquisite embroidery. Gold and silver thread formed a pattered trail of leaves, from which fruit hung and around which animals moved and shifted. The result was beautiful in the sun, bright and full of life, and it suited the young man with his androgynous features and green eyes that took in all beneath his blue ghutrah.

The palace was not difficult to see, and they dismounted to lead their horses in that direction. Horses, or at least well-kept horses with well-dressed riders, were still something of a rarity in Agrabah, and they attracted some attention as they made their way through the streets. No few young women cast looks to the younger man from behind their veils, and the older gained some looks of his own despite the mask that covered most of his features.

At the marketplace, they were caught by children, many of them barefoot and wearing ragged clothes. “Prince! Prince!” they called, surrounding the younger man. He looked over to his companion.

“There were Princes who used to come to try to claim the hand of the Princess, or so I am told,” he said. “Now, they more often come on diplomatic missions.”

The young man smiled. “I’m afraid I can’t stay,” he said. “But…”

A gold coin seemed to appear in his hand, and the children gasped hopefully.

“I would hazard there is someone here who sells sweets, is there not?”

The children gladly led him to the stallholder, who seemed surprised to see a strange man with an unusual accent paying for food for the children. He named his price, and the young man was about to hand over the money when the older grabbed hold of the vendor’s hand.

“Now, now,” said the man, “I have been in Agrabah before, and I know what prices are charged. Would you cheat children from their food?”

The vendor looked at him darkly, but when his wrist was released he added more sweets to the pile, and still looked wary as he accepted the coin. The young man distributed the sweets among the children, who laughed and thanked him and dove in, and begged him to come back to the market when he left the city.

“I will see,” he said.

“Yeah, you fit right in,” said a voice from behind him, as the children ran off with their prizes. “Always with the giving things away!”

The older man adjusted his cloak, and there was an indignant squawking sound. “Shall we?” he said, with a gesture towards the Palace.

They finished their journey, slowing as they approached the Palace with its high, bright walls. The young man’s eyes went wide with awe, and he walked closer to the woman with them, hand brushing against hers for a moment but not quite taking it. Then he squared his shoulders, took a firmer hold of his horse’s reins, and walked up to the guards at the huge front gates.

“Halt!” one of them called. “What brings you to the Palace?”

“My name is Prince Mirza of Alishar,” said the man. “I come to seek the audience of the Sultan, or of Princess Jasmine and her Prince Consort.” He drew a scroll from his waist and showed it to them, sealed in red wax. “If you would pass on my message that I might give this to them.”

The guard scowled, looking them over. The older man could almost see the calculations being done in his head. They were a small party, yes, and there was a woman with them, but perhaps she was there to cook and tend for them on their journey. If there truly was unrest, it would make sense that their Prince might have to flee, and the Prince and Princess were known for their willingness to help. They were also an excellent judge of character – never mind that they had a genie to protect them.

“Wait here,” said the guard. He hammered on the door, and it was opened slightly for him to step through and talk hurriedly with whoever was on the other side. The words were not loud enough to be audible.

The woman leant close to the young man. “You think they will let us enter?”

For the first time, uncertainty tugged at the young man’s features, but he smoothed his brow again. “We come in good will.”

Before the guards could return with their verdict, there was a cheer, and all three of the party looked round to see a flying carpet coming down one of the main streets of Agrabah, two people upon it, and a flying blue form at its side. The young man gasped, hand flying to his mouth, and stared as the carpet drew closer.

One of the people on the carpet was a young man, dressed in simple clothes; the other was a woman, in bright turquoise, with her hair free and her shoulders and stomach bared. The man pointed out the group at the gate, and the carpet slowed and came down to ground level, allowing them to step off gracefully.

The older man bowed, and the younger man realised whom he faced and bowed as well. “Your Highnesses,” he said.

“Greetings, stranger,” said the Princess, making it sound like a welcome and not some form of insult. “I am the Princess Jasmine of Agrabah. What brings you to my city?”

The young man straightened from his bow. “I am Prince Mirza of Alishar,” he repeated, “and I have come to beg your assistance with unrest in my Kingdom.”

He could not help, though, looking at the blue figure once again. It had to be the Genie, much whispered of in other lands.

“Then enter,” said the Princess, “and we shall talk.”

 

 

Their horses were taken by grooms, although the older man was quick to pick up one of the saddlebags. The young man airily described them as his retinue, all that could be bought from his land in such a time, and while the Princess left to arrange for food and drink to be bought for them, Prince Aladdin sat with them in a quiet chamber.

They spoke for a while about travelling, and the difficulties of the road, with Prince Mirza’s companions remaining silent at his side. The older man did not even remove his mask, and did not eat. But Prince Mirza spoke more than enough, bright and airy, with gestures of his hands and sharp asides that soon had Prince Aladdin laughing.

“Your Highness, if I might make so bold,” said Prince Mirza, setting down his cup of sharbat, “I would offer my greatest compliments to the beauty of your wife. Never have I seen a more gracious or lovely woman.”

“Thank you,” Prince Aladdin replied, in the tone of one who had grown used to such compliments with time.

“Although,” Prince Mirza shifted closer on the cushions on which they sat, putting his hand very close to Aladdin’s, “you have great beauty of your own.”

That was enough to make Aladdin splutter and blush, trying to say something but not managing coherence.

“I am told I have skilled hands,” Mirza continued, voice becoming more sensuous. “I could teach you the art of massage, if you will it. It works very well upon the feet and calves, but all the better upon the thighs.”

Aladdin had gone red to the ears, and shifted back with complete consternation on his face, just as Princess Jasmine entered the room. The raised-brow look that she gave both princes was quite enough to tell that she had heard at least some part of the exchange, but her lips twitched with amusement.

“Will you not answer him, Aladdin?” she said. Aladdin jumped at his wife’s voice, gave a strangled sound, and looked between the two of them desperately.

It was the older woman who broke the silence, slapping Prince Mirza on the arm. “Zumurrud, you will be the death of the poor man. Cease your teasing this instant.”

Prince Mirza broke out laughing, but it was clearly a woman’s laugh, and removing the ghutrah let free a long black braid bound in coloured silks. Sighing, the older man also reached up to remove his mask.

“I should be angry at you for teasing my son in such a way,” he said.

Even through his confusion, Aladdin’s eyes lit up. “Dad?”

Cassim smiled, and as Aladdin scrambled across the distance between them for a hug caught him and held him tightly. “It has been too long, again,” he said, voice thick.

There was a rustling in the saddlebag that Cassim had taken, and then Iago forced his way out and fluttered over to sit on the table, feathers thoroughly rustled. “No care for the parrot, any of you,” he said.

“You’re not Prince Mirza, then,” said Jasmine amiably, taking a seat. Aladdin released his father, but remained sat beside him.

Zumurrud smiled. “No. My apologies for the subterfuge, but we had to be sure we could speak with you privately. Cassim warned me,” she looked across at him with amusement, “that your guards might not take too kindly to him. My name is Zumurrud bint Dubnar, of the Land of the Black Sands.”

“The Black Sands?” said Aladdin, tensing. Jasmine’s hand clenched, and she looked wary.

“Her family was shattered by Mozenrath,” Cassim said. “She is no ally of his.”

With a glance to her mother and Cassim, Zumurrud wetted his lips, and for a moment nervousness showed through. “There is more,” she said. “If you will hear it. A long story. And… perhaps your Genie should be present for it.”

Aladdin and Jasmine exchanged a glance, then Jasmine nodded firmly. “I will have more sharbat fetched. It sounds as if you have had quite the adventure, Cassim.”

“Don’t forget the rahat ol-holqum!” Iago shouted, as she got to her feet and made to leave the room once again. “You try getting good rahat ol-holqum in Muskar!”

“You ended up in Muskar?” Aladdin asked his father.

Cassim shrugged. “Among other places. It has been a long month.”

 

 

 

“So,” said Zumurrud, as they stood on a quiet balcony overlooking the city that night, “that is your family.”

The word caught Cassim off-guard, and he looked over his shoulder as if anything other than his own rooms would meet his eyes. “I… suppose so,” he said. “Though I have not been here much.”

“I gathered,” she said. Her voice was warm as she put a hand on his arm. Jasmine had offered her fresh clothes, and even in the simplest of the princess’s gowns she looked more beautiful than ever, the pale green dress with its cream sash and shoulders bringing out the colour of her eyes. The best part, though, was seeing her relaxed, the stress gone from her face despite the shadows beneath her eyes. “They do care for you, Cassim.”

“I know,” he said truthfully. “And I for them. But this settled life…” he shook his head, with a brief grimace. “It is not for me.”

“You would rather adventure?” she said. “The world?” When he looked at her pointedly, she sighed, and lowered her gaze. Her hand stroked his arm. “I should not tease. But I am serious in some respects;” she raised her eyes to his again. “What does not benefit you can only cost you, Cassim.”

“Do you always speak in proverbs?” he said.

Zumurrud laughed. “Only the relevant ones.”

He waited until she fell quiet again, eyes tracing the lines of her face. He had seen ferocity there, when she had stood up to Mozenrath, and kindness when she gave to the children, but he thought that he liked her best at peace. “They will help you, from here,” he said, with a nod towards the Palace. “They’ve faced Mozenrath before, they’ll do it again if his power is becoming more dangerous.”

Surprise filled Zumurrud’s features. “You think I’m planning to stay here?”

“Uh…” Cassim reached for words, and was not rewarded with any.

“That’s quite the assumption, Cassim,” she said and even though he could hear in her voice that she was teasing again, he felt himself growing hot beneath the collar, a blush ready to call upwards. “Do you think that I would prefer a quieter life, then?”

“Well, I…” he waved vaguely. “You – who would not?”

“You.”

The simple word silenced his uncertainty, and Cassim found himself stunned by her again. Zumurrud turned to face him fully, her hand lingering on his arm, and in response he shifted to stand more squarely to her.

“Though the circumstances have hardly been ideal,” she said. “Thank you, Cassim. You save me from slavers, from a mad sorcerer, you bring me to Agrabah Palace.”

“You did more than a little of the saving yourself.”

She chuckled, slipping her hand higher, so that it was wrapped around his upper arm. It was an odd feeling, after so much time as the King of Thieves or just a thief besides, to know that Zumurrud looked at him so levelly and with something that approached trust. At least, trust which he might for once deserve.

“Why did you come for me?” said Zumurrud, tossing a loose lock of her hair back out of her eyes. It fell back immediately, and as soon as he saw the annoyed purse of her lips Cassim reached with his free hand to tuck it back for her. “I mean, I am impressed as to _how_ you found me, but no less _why_.”

“As for the how,” he replied, picking the easier question, “there was black sand at the site where Banu Goshasp and her men were reported to have vanished. Iago recognised its origin, and with what you had told me of your past it seemed that they had taken you back there.”

She waited for a moment that stretched out too long before raising an eyebrow. “And the why?”

It was harder to bring himself to say those words, but he owed her the honesty, at the very least. “Because it was unthinkable to do anything else. To leave anyone to the sorcerer of whom I had heard so much… but especially to leave you.”

Zumurrud’s face had become serious, eyes bright by the dim light of the room behind them. She bought up her other hand to Cassim’s other arm, and for an instant he felt trapped by the duel touches, for all that she was a slight woman and was doing nothing more than touching his arms. It was not a physical vulnerability, he told himself brusquely, but to do so was to all but admit that it was an emotional one.

“I…” words failed him, and he had to look away.

“The man who faced a Mamluk army and a sorcerer will not speak of his feelings?” said Zumurrud.

For a moment, his temper flared, the hand that rested on the stone balcony tightening into a fist. “I do not hear you speaking of your feelings,” he retorted.

There was a pause, and for a moment he was quite convinced that Zumurrud would walk away. Doubtless he would have deserved it. But instead she sighed, very softly, and sadness softened the lines of her eyes.

“You are right,” she said quietly. “I make a hypocrite of myself. If I would ask for honesty, then I shall give it.” She swallowed, and her fingers hardened, if not quite tightened, on Cassim’s arms. “For the first time since my father and my brothers were killed, since I was taken as a slave, you made me feel like a person once again. Not a belonging, a slave to be bartered or a power to be exploited. Your presence makes me feel alive again. Your stories make me believe that there is a world out there again, a world to be _lived_.”

She paused, breathing quickly, and he saw the flicker of her eyes down to his lips. With his years, it was not a gesture with which Cassim was unfamiliar.

“I am glad of it,” he said. “But Zumurrud, I am not – some young _prince_ to steal you away. I have no settled home; my main companion is a talking and often aggravating parrot; I have lost count of the kingdoms I should have been arrested in.”

“If you are going to give me excuses as to why I should not pursue a relationship with you,” said Zumurrud glibly, “it would be better to wait until _I_ was the one to suggest it.”

His tongue stilled, and he felt his face become a mask of shock as Zumurrud maintained her calm for stretched-out, beating seconds. Then she started laughing, eyes never leaving his, and he smiled at his own foolishness even as he felt heat in his cheeks.

“I would swear there was a time when I was better at twisting conversation to my own designs,” he admitted. At least that, it seemed, would come fluidly.

“But you have thought of it,” she said, still serious. Her skin was very warm against his arms, and he was aware of the aching emptiness of his own hands. “In the time travelling here, from the Land of the Black Sands.”

“Yes,” he said. His mouth felt dry.

Zumurrud took a small step closer to him, closing the distance between them. It was strange, Cassim thought, that in fights and adventures he would dive in fearlessly, but he found himself cautious before her. “And you did not say that you did not want it.”

Her eyes flickered to his lips and back up once again. He found himself fixed on her eyes in return determinedly not looking at her lips, for all of the time that he had spent studying her profile in the days of travel to Agrabah. “You have met my son. He is your age.”

At that, Zumurrud rolled her eyes. “I was born an old cynic, and you still charge into fights like a foolish youth.  We are both quite capable of making our own choices.”

There were reasons, that he knew; he had turned them over and over in his mind on the way back from the Land of the Black Sands. Not just his age and wayward ways, or his nomadism, but everything that Zumurrud had faced and the great future that could await her. But between each determined thought he had found himself listening to her sing along with her mother, or had thought of her strength of heart, or the wit and fire with which she had turned away those men who had tried to buy her as a slave.

And he had wondered if he was falling for her.

Unbidden, his gaze lingered on her lips, slightly parted, shining from the pass of her tongue. Perhaps Zumurrud had been waiting for him to do so, or perhaps it was something else, but she drew him down and caught his lips with hers.

For a moment, all thoughts escaped him. The kiss was nothing more than a firm press of lips to lips, not quite chaste but not all that far from it, but for it to come from Zumurrud seemed to be more than enough to shake his mind loose. He jerked away in astonishment, trying to gather his wits if nothing else, and for a moment there was a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. All his thoughts had been to dissuade him from ever asking such a thing of her. He had never thought that it would be her doing the asking.

His hand cupped her jaw, and he kissed her in return, and just caught the wash of relief on her features before he closed his eyes to do so. Her lips were soft and tasted sweet, and when they parted he was impressed as well as surprised to feel her tongue brush against his lips. Her arms moved to wind around his neck.

“Oh, come on, seriously?”

He must have missed the telltale sound of wings; it was Iago’s indignant voice that startled Cassim. They broke their kiss, but Zumurrud did not draw away as Cassim looked around to see Iago at head-height beside them and looking at him with unbridled annoyance.

“You know, I get tired of always being right sometimes.”

“Iago.” Cassim coughed. “If you would not mind–”

“Leaving you two lovebirds to it?” Iago rolled his eyes. “Please, like I’d want to stick around for the schmaltz.”

“I would think that Cassim would ask you to lower your voice,” said Zumurrud. He was impressed as well that she sounded only amused, and not embarrassed, for Iago to have appeared on them. Her arms shifted slightly, and he guessed that she was crossing her wrists behind his head. “You _were_ interrupting.”

If birds could blush, Cassim rather suspected that Iago would have done so, to judge by the alarmed expression on his face. “As you were, Iago,” he said, and turned back as if he were going to kiss Zumurrud again.

“You still owe me adventure!” With an angry snap of his wings, Iago started upwards, pausing only to shout down at them again. “None of this settling down business!”

“Sounds far too boring,” said Zumurrud, as Iago vanished into the darkness above them. “I’d far rather be making stories than hearing them, I think.”

“Even if those stories are alongside the former King of Thieves?”

“A disposed King without a land,” she said airily, tilting her head. “It has the air of a story about it already. And you do have a skill for the telling of stories, from what I have seen.”

“Then let us make a story.” He smiled, and kissed her once again.


End file.
